Dehillerin

If you read this blog you probably like to cook, collect antiques, deal in antiques, travel, or enjoying shopping. I am going to tell you about a cook's paradise in Paris.  You have probably heard of it, Dehillerin,  a gourmet cook's fantasy with devices that must be carried home for the American kitchen (although you can probably find every single thing in America) but where's the thrill in that? Also, the prices are better in Paris. Having first read about the whole batterie de cuisine in an American author's books on entertaining, I knew I must visit and revisit this shrine for cooks.  Dehillerin has been serving top-notch chefs for over one hundred fifty years and they never have had a sale.  Don't look for courteous treatment or advice either. Surprise.  This odd-shaped building is located at 18 Rue Coquilliere and the very address makes Andy shiver and his muscles ache because I only buy heavy stuff there for him to carry home--or so he says.

As you approach the store, really a warehouse with no elegance what so ever, you will see the large Gothic Saint Eustache church where Madam de Pompadour and Moliere were baptized and where Louis XIV celebrated his first communion.  Across from this landmark is a large park and playground.  That's where you will find Andy taking a nap preparing his body for the load that is to be forthcoming.

Sometimes while I shop Andy walks the brick pathway lined with restaurants of every kind to choose where we will dine that day. All have indoor and outdoor accommodations to suit the taste and season. Colorful umbrellas and potted plants dress up the street.  We have read the menus and meandered along this path many times while we decided where to have lunch or dinner.  Big iced trays of remarkable seafood catch our eyes and then we read about dim sum and duck a la Cantonese.  But, by this time we are really looking forward to something big and cold--never enough ice in either London or Paris.  We usually decide on the Chicago Meat Packers restaurant.  English is spoken and pitchers of iced beverages are passed.  We can let down our guard after days of posturing and pretending to understand French while we tackle huge plates of ribs or slabs of correctly cooked steak (as ordered) all washed down with frosty beer.  Something to look forward to, but first I shop!

I'm faced with every cooking device known to man as I stand in the doorway gazing at the bins of knives, choppers, clippers, and zesters.  A large whisk hangs from the ceiling the size meant only for display or the hands of a giant. There are mandolines that can julienne your little fingers off and tart pans that would have pleased the Queen of Hearts.  The cacophony of languages stuns the ear and everyone is speaking importantly of food.  I escape to the basement which is filled with La Cruisant.  I must have a piece of that although it is too heavy for a mule.  Oh, there are more tart pans shaped like flowers.  I have to have one of those.  I'm hyperventilating a state usually reserved for antiquing. Finally, I have the attention of one of the salespeople and he informs me I have too many items to fit in my bag (on wheels). Well, he had to make it work, the prices are half the price they are in America.  Shhh, don't tell the French.

I am not finished.  I leave the shop and make a sharp left going down a narrow street which dumps me into another street of dreams.  All cook and tableware, dried shiitake mushrooms, spices, vinegar, oils--I am gone way too long.  By now my bag and I are swaying side to side both worn and exhausted off to find Andy asleep in the park.  He wakes with start eyeing the bulging bag with chagrin. I am glad he slept, he's going to need it.

Full of lunch from the Chicago Meat Packers we decide to take a bus back to the hotel.  The French busses sometimes have a little stage to stand on the outside of the back of the bus.  There we were letting the wind whip us to a frazzle and the exhaust plug our nasal passages--never mind, we were in Paris and it was glorious.